


holding onto stars

by catchpenny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:16:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchpenny/pseuds/catchpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She despises him, but she's worried about suffocating him anyway, and Grantaire could live off that for months. He's not sure what resemblance it has to love, the love the poets sing of; what he feels for Enjolras is something that makes him dream about grovelling at her feet and kissing the sole of the shoe that kicks him. </p><p>He doesn't even fucking <i>have</i> a foot fetish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holding onto stars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for [ this kink meme prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=13285576#t13285576) that wanted girl!Enjolras sitting on Grantaire's face and then him eating her out from behind.

It's always a good view, Enjolras riding him, her face terrifyingly remote and her golden hair curling around her shoulders. Better when she moves her hips and finds her rhythm, and her breasts move with her. They shouldn't do anything as undignified as _bouncing_ \-- any more than the perfect marble tits on a stony Artemis ever move -- but bounce they do, and Grantaire's almost childishly delighted and amazed by the abiding laws of gravity and motion every time.

Better still when it's his face she's riding, he's sure, even if he can't watch her.

"I -- _no_ ," Enjolras says, when he puts his hands to her hips and tries to pull her up his body. She was amenable when she thought he wanted her to climb on and ride his dick, but when she realised just _how_ Grantaire wants her to ride him, she went a shade of red he hasn't managed to coax out of her yet.

He's gone down on her before - they've been fucking for a month, a few secret stolen times a week. There's nothing Grantaire had wanted and dreamed about more, all these previous unfucked and unfucking months, than burying his face between her lovely thighs and making cold untouchable Enjolras come under him. As many times and as many ways and as often as she wants -- and he's had long-cherished fantasies like that, too. Enjolras commanding him coolly to attend to her, working at her desk with her skirt up around her hips. Grantaire on his knees for her like a pet, a slave, working and working until his jaw hurts and his tongue's tired and all he can see/breathe/feel is her, wet and slick and sweet and only registering his presence by the faintest catch of her breath, a pause in her typing when he does something particularly good, a small exhale when he makes her come. A touch to his hair at the end, maybe, and then a cold order to wash his dirty face.

Reality is stranger and sweeter and rougher and more tender. Reality is Enjolras only opening her legs for his attentions reluctantly, and Grantaire getting to teach her about how good someone else's mouth is, just there, just like that. Reality is Enjolras's composure as well as her uncertainty dissolving under his mouth, and the sounds coming out of her, her hands sharp in his hair.

Now he strokes her thigh coaxingly and says "Have I been wrong yet? You'll like it. You'll fucking _love_ it, my chilly Diana. Think about shutting me up. Think about pinning me to the floor with your knees around my neck and making me _take_ it."

"Why would you think I want that?"

Grantaire smirks up at her instead of answering. It's a knowing smirk that encompasses Enjolras's previous eagerness to ride him, her preference for being on top and controlling how they fuck, the angle and the pace and the depth. Enjolras wants him just where she puts him, and Grantaire obeys: does his best to, anyway, until his control slips sideways and he finds his hands tightening on her hips, screwing himself up into her as she screws back just as furiously and claws his chest in punishment for breaking.

Enjolras compresses her mouth, eyes dropping down and breaking their stare. That means he's right, but it's Enjolras, and she won't admit that to him, of all people. She'll fuck him, but his opinions still mean as much as the occasional belch from a factory furnace, and if any of their friends found out -- well, they're not going to, that's one of the ground rules.

"Fine," she says curtly. "The idea's not unappealing, but it's not--" 

Here she breaks off, mouth working again around something she won't say.

"Not _what_ ," Grantaire purrs, still stroking her thigh. "Not something nice girls do?"

"Not _nice_."

Grantaire laughs --she's kidding -- but the laughter tapers and stops when Enjolras frowns at him and he realises she's serious. "You're kidding," he says anyway. "Enjolras -- are you under the delusion that I want _nice_? Even if I did -- even if I wasn't wired to find it hot as fuck when you treat me like a sex toy, even if I wasn't into that, which, believe me, I _am_ \-- do you think what we're doing is _nice_? Do you think -- what do you think this is?"

"I know what this is," Enjolras says, but she won't look at him, and it's only Grantaire's hands tightening on her thighs that keeps her from moving off him, from jerking away from his searching look. "I'm not -- I don't -- I could hurt you."

She despises him, but she's worried about suffocating him anyway, and Grantaire could live off that for months. He's not sure what resemblance it has to love, the love the poets sing of; what he feels for Enjolras is something that makes him dream about grovelling at her feet and kissing the sole of the shoe that kicks him. 

He doesn't even fucking _have_ a foot fetish.

"What do you think this _is_?" he repeats. "That's what - Enjolras, there's nothing you could do I wouldn't be into. Do you want to slap me in the face when you're fucking me? I'll get off on it. You want to sit on my face and _grind_ yourself off? Be my guest. _Please_."

Two flaming patches of colour flare high on her cheekbones, like he's the one who's slapped her. "Fine," she says, even more curtly, and this time it's not just begrudging acknowledgement that he's right about something for once, that he's put his finger squarely on something about _her_ that she would never recognise willingly. It's agreement. 

Grantaire lies back, obligingly, hands linking behind his head. The look he gives her sweeps her from head to breasts to the fingertip-indent of her navel, down to the golden split of her, damp against his stomach where she's still straddling him, and then all the way back up. He raises an eyebrow, daring her.

On cue Enjolras's face sets, furious and hard the way it is before a scathing comment, an activist event, a really hard and explosive fuck.

This is going to be one of them.

She's still hesitant about it when she moves up until it's his neck she's straddling, her knees kissing his ears. Hesitant as she lowers herself onto him, and still holding back even when Grantaire grabs a handful of her ass -- pale and neat as the rest of her -- and crushes her down against him.

Then he's licking her, an assault of tongue that doesn't bother with subtlety but gets straight into it, and he fucking knew it -- she's wet already, just from talking about it. It's a new angle, but a familiar _her_ , and after the first startled sound Enjolras untenses above him.

Grantaire is a man who enjoys his work. He could spend forever buried alive with his face in her cunt, feeling her responding to him, moving with him, moving _against_ him; directing him with her hips to where she wants him. It takes a little while before she does, and once she starts, that's it -- she's in control again, and Grantaire can only lie back and let her fuck herself on his face, arch to rub her pelvic bone long and hard against his chin before her hips tilt back and she's looking for his tongue again. 

He can't see, can't hear with her knees pressing against his skull on either side, can only taste her, smell her, feel her -- he's _overwhelmed_ by Enjolras, possessed and owned utterly by her physically as he's always been in every other way. She controls when he breathes: she blots out everything that isn't right now, this moment, this immediacy, this intimacy. Doubt and worry and self-hate; gone. 

In this small moment, he has something she wants, something she needs, and he's _good_ at this. The movements of her hips tell him that. She's desperate and he's capable. Grantaire can answer this question, he can do what Enjolras asks of him without her needing to put it into words; he can read her body when they're together like this.He reads it when she comes, the moment before she comes, before her thighs tighten around his shoulders and she trembles, muscles convulsing powerfully. 

Grantaire's good at letting her own him until the moment he's not, and this is that moment, Enjolras starting to come for him, and it's not _enough_ , he needs more.

She fights him when he moves her off, fights him until he has her on her hands and knees and spreads her, shoves his face into her again. The angle's different, the control shifting, and now he's the one fucking her even when she bucks back into him and parts her legs further, helping him get deeper. He licks her to loud furious orgasm, and then past it, to the point where she always starts getting sensitive and can't take her clit being touched directly any longer.

It's still not enough, but she says " _No_ when he tries to keep going, and then "Stop, I can't -- _Fuck_ me." 

They haven't tried this way before, Enjolras on all fours and Grantaire behind her. It's the opposite of the positions she usually likes, but she makes a deep satisfied sound when he slides into her, surprising counterpoint to his own heartfelt groan. 

She's tight as a glove, so oiled and slick that it's easy, slippery, heavenly, almost too good, and Grantaire's panting nonsense, poetry and prayer and curses and broken animal noises. He leans his forehead between her winged shoulder blades, and breathes. The dip of her spine tastes like salt under his tongue, and honey at the base of her neck. 

They move together, a shared and perfect rhythm until Grantaire feels urgency rising again, personal this time. Not a huge formless needy groping thing but a familiar tension, tight balls and hard cock and tight cunt around it, the need to come.

"Wait," Enjolras says breathlessly, "I'm almost--" 

He bites his lip savagely to keep himself from the edge until she groans under him, and then he's coming, too, an obliterating shattering crash of an orgasm like a truck into a tunnel wall at full speed. Whiplash. That dislocating moment of knowing one state of being, and then being abruptly in another, with little memory of the interim stages. 

He was slumped against Enjolras's back, and now they're tangled together on the floor, his face mashed into the curve of her shoulder. She's very still. After a moment, he brushes a wisp of blonde hair from the side of her face, and she stirs.

"Grantaire."

"Ah -- yes?" His tongue is clumsy. Tired. His voice is worse. "Still alive."

"Good," Enjolras says, and there's something hoarse to her voice too. "That was really -- that was _good_."

"Thanks." She twitches her shoulder, jolting him. "I mean. Yeah. Not bad. Fuck of my life."

Wrong thing to say: Enjolras stiffens. Grantaire feels his cock slip out of her, sad and soft. His spent dick is a metaphor for his existence. Pitiable and unwanted, used-up, puffed up for a short while with vainglory and now back to the usual.

"I know it's not very exciting for you, with all your -- _Would_ I have to slap you while you're fucking me to make it fresh, or is that stale and blasé too?"

Grantaire's brain is officially too fucked out to deal with unpeeling the many sharp layers of Enjolras back behind her spiked walls and crocodile-filled moats. "C'mere," he mutters, and tugs her back. 

She's stiff still, but she lets him tuck her against his chest and hold her there. It's the only time she lets him get affectionate, right after. He's not going to miss out on his short allotment of afterglow, even if it's with an Enjolras who's statue-tense again instead of briefly permissive, just because he's too dumb to puzzle through the implications immediately. She offered to slap him -- it's a sign of how completely spent he is that his dick doesn't twitch at all over that; she said--

"I wasn't _joking_ ," Grantaire says a moment later, Enjolras's chin digging resentfully into his sternum. "I know you're new at this stuff, but trust me, that was -- I wasn't joking."

"Do I sound like I need your reassurance?"

"You sound like you're in a phenomenal temper for someone who just got off at least twice." He pauses, suddenly in need of his own reassurance. "You did, right?"

Enjolras makes him wait, but eventually she mutters "three," and softens a little against him.

They're quiet. He can feel her breathing against his ribs. 

"I should go," Enjolras says at last, and then she's struggling out of his arms and to her feet. Grantaire watches from the floor as she finds her clothes scattered around his room, and there's a stolen intimacy to this, getting to watch her ball up her underwear and dab quickly between her legs before she shoves them into her bag. Watching her struggling naked into her jeans before she even looks for her bra. 

This is a familiar dance. It happened a few days ago, and twice last week. They can't seem to lie quietly together for long in the vulnerability of aftermath without a sudden claim of somewhere else to be, without manufacturing an argument to drive them apart, back behind their walls. They'll do it again, a few days from now when she wants him more than she despises him. It would probably hurt less not to watch her dressing, putting herself back together, but he can't stop looking. His face is shiny and tight with her dried juices. 

"Shower before you show up at the Musain again," Enjolras says in her normal voice, winding her scarf around her throat and shrugging back into her red jacket. She knows him too well too, when it comes to some things.

"Kiss me goodbye," Grantaire counters. He's not surprised when she leaves, but he's surprised when she hesitates first.


End file.
